Of Blood and Pain, Brother
by KelBub
Summary: "Mom?" Stiles said softly. Something was wrong. He reached out and took her hand in his. It was cold and stiff. Her eyes were open, not wide open but in slits, and they stared into nothingness the way they do when someone has passed. Something cold rushed through his body. Later he would sometimes wonder about that sudden rush of cold and the feeling of emptiness it had left behind
1. Chapter 1

**Of Blood and Pain, Brother. **

His shirt is wet and sticky and his jeans are damp at the hip. It's not a pleasant feeling, especially since he knows why. He doesn't want to look, he just can't. He's running, and he doesn't think he's ever run this fast before. Still it feels as though he's crawling through mud. His heart is racing, his lungs aching and the pain in his side has ignited and is growing the further away he gets. He's sure he would've been dead had the adrenaline not kicked in.

His vision is blurry and he wonders vaguely if it's raining, then realizes it's probably a combination of sweat and tears that cause it. He blinks furiously and his vision clears and he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve as he runs. He can't be stopping for anything. Can't. Stop. Stopping would be bad. Really bad. He hears growling behind him and freaks out, runs even faster. His hand goes into his jacket pocket. He's never been particularly good at doing two things at the same time. Chewing gum while running, for example, has always been impossible. But he surprises himself when he slips and stumbles down the hill and at the same time actually manages to pull out his car keys from his pocket. His first instinct is to exclaim "yeah, that's right, baby"! And if he'd had the willpower, the time or the mindset he would've done a little celebratory dance as well. But this is so not the time or the place.

He's relieved to see that his car is where he left it, and intact. He sprints across the parking lot, risks a glance behind him and immediately regrets it. He works the key into the lock and it seems an eternity before the car door finally creaks open. _Piece-of-shit-car._ He doesn't mull over the fact that he's still stuck with the jeep when everyone else he knows have upgraded. He slams shut the door and winces at the pain in his side. Keys in ignition. Drive. Gas. Turn. Pedal to the metal. His breath hitches in his throat. Did he actually just get out of there alive?! Well, barely… But still.

He looks in the rearview mirror and sees them coming out of the woods and leaping onto the road. They're running after the car – all agile and animalistic - and he realizes that he didn't in fact get away. He whimpers. His fingers are stiff around the steering wheel and he can hardly see the road up ahead. He does that stupid thing again where he looks and glances down at his stomach and jeans. He's filled with an instant need to throw up but knows he can't. Bad. Bad. Really bad. Shouldn't have looked. He's crying now, for real, no getting around it apparently. He's going to die and he knows it now. That much blood just can't be good for your health. His hands are sweating. He wipes a hand on his pant leg and grimaces when it comes back all wet and sticky. It's blood. _Jesus Christ_, he thinks.

He steps on the gas and is relieved to find his pursuers are finally falling behind. He doesn't relax until they are completely out of sight though. He sighs with relief and thinks that maybe, just maybe he actually has a shot at making it to town and to the hospital before he bleeds out.

He doesn't see the other car. When he's rammed everything goes into slow motion; some kind of silent, painless out of body experience that is almost poetic. He can actually see it all happening before his eyes; his head smacking into the side of the car, the blood splatter, the windshield cracking, the metal bending in on itself and trapping him in his seat. He thinks one last thought before he blacks out; _at least it wasn't Scott. _

OOO

When he comes to it's to a full-fledged pain. He cries out then bites his lip against the ache. _Be a man, Stiles, be a man, _he wants to say. But it hurts too much for role playing games. He doesn't feel the least bit manly when a tear forces its way out and leaves a wet trail in its wake.

"He's awake."

He doesn't recognize the voice, nor does he know where he is. He's not in his car any more, that much he can tell. His arms and legs are heavy and his head is a throbbing mess.

"Ow," he whimpers softly. A stark light is suddenly turned on over his head. It blinds him and he blinks in agony. He doesn't know what else to do because he can't move, can't even turn his head. It's too painful.

"He's nowhere near awake. Poke him, dammit!"

He can't quite get his head around the words. _Not awake? Nowhere near awake? Poke him? Poke him where exactly? _He's hurting all over and thinks that he'd do just fine without any poking, thank you very much. He's not at all ready for what comes next. They actually poke him - and they poke him with some kind of poker and it burns like a hot poker. And hell, he never thought he'd use the words poke or poker so much in a sentence. It sizzles and he screams because if the pain was bad before, it's excruciating now. It is right around this time he realizes his arms and legs are heavy for a reason – when he pulls at the ropes to get away from the searing pain. _The ropes_, he thinks, suddenly there and aware again. His heart skips a beat. He's actually tied up and he has no idea why.

"Stop it!" he croaks. It's intended as a command, but his words come out in a pathetic slur. His head is definitely not right.

"Again," says the voice he's now come to hate. And then the poker is there again, burning a hole in his side – or at least it feels like it. He screams, really screams this time. "Why are you doing this?! Please, s-t-o-p."

He coughs out the last word and then gurgles blood. And he knows, just knows, that if they looked close enough right now they would be able to see his lung through his ribs. That's how badly hurt he is. He sort of whimpers and lets the blood run out of the corners of his mouth and trickle down his cheeks and jaw. _Yeah, it's __**that**__ bad._

"What do you want?" he forces out. "Who are you?"

He can hardly see through the tears and the sweat that seem to pour out of him like waterfalls.

"You hear that?" someone says, "The dog wants to know who we are."

_Dog. Dog? What are they talking about? _ His head is so not in the game right now. "What?" he squeaks, because the other guy's tone makes him uneasy. It wasn't exactly a friendly tone. He's suddenly frightened because now he knows they have no idea who he is and no interest to find out either. It doesn't stop him from trying to explain though.

"Please, listen. I'm not what you think I am. I'm not. Okay? Please let me go and I'll explain." He doesn't know what else to say and the bright light currently piercing his eyes is quite intimidating. He feels like a lab rat, tied spread-eagled to a plank, and about to be studied and "worked on" and - let's face it – gutted.

"Shut him up!" It's that man again. Before Stiles knows it, a fist connects with his face and he blacks out again.

When he comes to, he doesn't want them to know. He just lies there, plays dead…or something. Frankly, he doesn't know what he's doing. The only thing he knows is that he's completely and utterly helpless and totally at their mercy. He just wants to be left alone. To not be poked at by hot pokers again. To not be tortured any more. He was about to die, why couldn't they just have let him?

He thinks about Scott again and wants to cry. _No, do not think about Scott_, he berates himself, "_just don't go there, dude."_

"Sir, come look at this," someone shouts suddenly and Stiles flinches, almost gives himself away. He hears footsteps and steels himself. _This is it,_ he thinks. _This is fucking it._

But it's not what he thinks. He cries out and then sort of chokes, because someone is digging their fingers into his side and it hurts so much he can't breathe. He opens his eyes and realizes that the blinding light is now turned off. He groans in agony and tries to twist away from the prodding fingers, but the ropes are pulled taut and he can't move. The fingers are removed and he gasps for breath.

"He's not healing. Shouldn't he have healed, or at least begun to heal, at this point?"

_That's right, bitches,_ he thinks. _I tried to tell you!_ He was just a regular human. And if they didn't know, regular humans needed just a little more time to heal. In his case he was pretty sure that he would need some serious surgery, blood transfusions and stitches to recover at all. It wasn't the time to tell them "told you so" though.

"That can't be possible! He was with them. He has the bite."

Stiles remembers suddenly and his body goes completely limp. _Oh my God …The bite._ He feels faint. How do they even know about the bite, or what it means? "Please," he whispers, "I can explain everything if you just let me." He's not really planning to tell them everything of course, but just enough to save all of their lives. Besides, they already seem to be in the know about the supernatural world.

Nobody says anything at first and Stiles begins to feel more than a little anxious. Then somebody cuts the ropes around his wrists and ankles and he is jostled off the table and dropped unceremoniously on the floor. He bites back a cry and tries to breathe through the pain. His vision swims back and forth and it's hard to focus on the blurry shapes of his captors. There are more than two of them, this much he knows. Even though he can't quite see them clearly, he can definitely feel their presence. "Geez," he mumbles. His head is throbbing like hell and the wounds in his side burn like fire.

Someone slaps him upon the back of his head. "Talk."

Stiles wipes his mouth with his sleeve and tries not to worry about the bloodstains on the fabric.

"Listen, someone's after me," he says. "Something very dangerous."

"Someone or _something_?" one of the men asks him.

"Something," Stiles confesses. No point in hiding that fact. His vision has cleared somewhat and he can see an artillery of weapons lined up against the walls behind the other men. They must be hunters, he muses. They have got to be. Won't save them though, he thinks grimly. "You said I was with _them_. I'm not exactly sure what you meant by that, but yes, I was with a group of people but I am not like them. I'm kind of the hanging-out-and-helping-whenever-I-can guy." He doesn't even know what he's saying. It makes no sense whatsoever. "…Funny story, eh?"

Somebody slaps him hard across the face and he sees stars. "Sorry," he squeezes out. "I don't know what to say," Yeah, he doesn't know what to say, but he knows that it's either tell them the truth straight up or be killed and he doesn't really want to die. He's only eighteen. He's jumping to conclusions when he speaks next; "I know you think I'm a werewolf. But I'm not. I would've healed by now. You said so yourselves." He's unsure of how to continue, hopes that they did in fact know about werewolves before he opened his mouth. If they didn't, things could get ugly.

"And the bite?" someone asks coldly.

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. In truth he doesn't know what it means. Doesn't know who or what bit him. There had been quite the commotion and he'd been too focused on getting out of there alive to really care what happened to him along the way. The slashes in his side though were another story. They had hurt as much psychologically as they had physically.

"I don't know for sure," he answers haltingly, "but there weren't just werewolves there." He swallows nervously because the rest of the story is almost too fantastic to believe even for him. Crazed, he thinks that maybe they will kill him before he can even finish telling it. Still, he figures sticking to the truth will be better than lying to them. "It was crazy," he says. "I'm talking like, circus crazy. Friggin' bears, cougars, wolves and coyotes everywhere. Just take your pick." He holds his breath, waits for his words to sink in.

Everyone is silent around him and Stiles is sure he will receive another punch or poke, or even worse, before too long.

"What the fuck?!" someone says.

"He's lying."

"It's so far-fetched it could actually be true," someone else adds.

Stiles feels a tiny bit of hope rising in his heart but it sinks just as quickly when he suddenly throws up. It's blood. A lot of blood. He feels lightheaded and completely drained of energy. He slumps forward, too weak to hold himself up. Somebody grabs him by the arm and drags him to his knees but Stiles can't seem to stay upright. The man soon realizes he can't release his grip without Stiles crashing to the floor again. He says something but Stiles can't hear what. All he knows is that he's dying. His peripheral vision blackens and the edges creep closer and closer until he can't see at all. He can't hear properly either. There's a lot of shouting but he can't make out any of the words. _Dad, I'm sorry for lying to you,_ he thinks_. I love you._

OOO

When the blindfold is removed she can hardly believe her eyes. The young boy before her looks more dead than alive. Blood is everywhere. The man with the gun urges her to go inside and she steps into the room hesitantly.

"Is there anything you can do for him?" he asks.

"I…don't…I don't know," she stammers. "I'll have to examine him first."

"Well, go ahead."

The room is filled with grown men with deadly weapons and she can't for the life of her understand why. The boy is unconscious and badly hurt. And despite all the manpower and the weapons, the boy is chained; hands AND feet. She feels sick to her stomach. So sick in fact that she can't even think about herself or the trouble she's in. She drops her bag and falls to her knees beside the boy. His wrists are rubbed raw, either from the cuffs or the rope that is still clinging to his wrists, she doesn't really care – either way it disgusts her.

"What's his name?" she asks.

"You don't need to know his name to do your job, do you Doc?" the man with the gun says. It's a rhetorical question.

She shoots him an angry look but doesn't ask again. Instead she carefully rolls up the boy's shirt to assess whatever damage done to him. It's quite obvious from the blood and his ripped shirt that the worst injuries are on his torso. She's been a doctor for a long time but can't help but gasp at the huge gashes in his side. She sees burn marks and a big bite mark that couldn't possibly have come from a dog or a person. Several scrapes and cuts. Contusions... It's a miracle that he's even alive. She presses two fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse. It's weak and quick. She opens the bag and pulls out her stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. The boy's blood pressure is low like she expects. She's annoyed to find that she forgot to bring a thermometer. So instead she puts a hand on the boy's forehead to check for a fever. He's hot. Not a high fever yet, but she has a feeling it's about to go up.

"I gather he's been attacked by some kind of animal," she comments. "Judging by the extensive injuries and bite and claw marks." She doesn't wait for a response. "He needs surgery. And I don't know how long he's been in this condition but he's going to go into shock if he doesn't receive immediate medical attention; blood transfusions, surgery, antibiotics...

"This is all the medical attention he's going to get, Doc, so you better make the best of it," one of the other men says coldly. "Work your magic."

She wants to strangle all of them but she knows she has to focus entirely on the boy. She digs around in the bag and grabs all the things she needs to stabilize him. She prepares a PVC and inserts it into the boy's arm. He doesn't move at all and she's glad that he doesn't. She's going to do worse things later on. Thankfully, the men had grabbed her at the hospital so she'd been able to bring stuff she doesn't usually carry with her. Like intravenous antibiotics, local anesthetics, morphine, several suture kits and a bunch of iv drips. She works quickly, administering the antibiotics first and then flushing an iv drip into the boy's circulatory system. She needs to get that blood pressure up and the fever down. And stop the bleeding. She lifts up the boy's shirt again to bare the gashes in his side. They are still oozing blood. And pus. The pus bothers her.

She cleans the wounds carefully and the boy remains still and unresponsive. She's unsure of what to do when it's time to do the sutures. With, our without local anesthetics is the question. She has a limited supply and might need them once the boy is awake. She decides to take her chances and stitch him up without them, and thankfully, the boy doesn't even flinch as she goes to work on the large gashes.

OOO

He wakes up with a soft moan and jerks when he realizes he's not where he last remembered being; on the floor, inside that weapons room. He's on the floor now too but he's tied up again and a woman looks down at him with a worried expression. He feels sick to his stomach, wants to throw up, but can only manage dry heaves. He's in so much pain that it's easier to pick out the spots on his body where it doesn't hurt rather than the places that do. He is one aching mess. He stares at her imploringly but can't find the words to talk to her. Luckily, she speaks.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

He nods. His head is heavy and still throbbing like crazy, must be one hell of a concussion.

"My name is Lisa and I'm a doctor," the woman says. "And I'm going to help you the best I can." She retrieves a small vial from what looks like a sports bag and looks back at him. "Are you allergic to any drugs or antibiotics that you know of?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't know for sure because he's never been in the hospital other than when his mother was sick.

"Good," the woman says. "I'll give you some morphine for the pain then." She fills a syringe with a clear liquid and then injects it into his system via a plastic thing in his arm. "It should kick in within a minute or so," she explains. It goes faster than that and Stiles thinks that he has never felt that kind of relief before.

"Thank you," he says softly. "That feels better."

And it does. But over all, he's not feeling too hot. He has a fever – he can feel it - and his body is all weird and achy. The doctor does a lot of tests on him that he has no idea what they are for. He doesn't care though. He's just happy to be alive and for the moment out of pain.

OOO

The hunters are everywhere. Always one or two close by to make sure he doesn't go anywhere. He's told _not to speak to the woman_, unless to answer questions about his health. He's not allowed to tell her his name. The Doc, Lisa, speaks to him though, asks him lots of questions about how he feels and where it hurts. And she's always checking the dressings on his wounds. She has patched him up pretty good, he thinks, because he's not bleeding or hurting nearly as much anymore. He'd been sure nobody would be able to stitch up those claw marks. Those suckers had been fatal.

He tries to talk to her, between antibiotics and morphine injections, between redressing of his wounds and checking his vital signs. But it's hard to talk about the supernatural to any regular person, let alone a doctor whose whole world is built around facts and logic. Doctors are rational and since he has to mask his every word, he gets nowhere with her.

The hunters, though, are not stupid and they detect the meaning behind his words. He's been pushing it, he knows that, but he also knows what's after him and that they are all in danger. They need to keep moving. And the doctor needs to be in the know.

They gag him and it's the worst thing they can do to him. Stiles is never quiet. Silence gnaws at him, eats away at his soul. He has a restless soul and a hyper personality. Quiet is horrible. He can't tell her anything now, can't warn the hunters either. He's immobile and forced to silence. They've wrapped him up like a nice little gift for the taking.

OOO

A week goes by and he sleeps for most of that time. The doctor thinks his fever is too high for comfort and the wounds in his side are still oozing pus. It doesn't take long before they're out of antibiotics and then the morphine's gone as well. The antibiotics he can live without, Stiles thinks, but he misses the drugs and the way they numbed him. It's what he wants right now, to feel nothing. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to have to worry. They are all in danger but there's nothing he can do about it.

He rarely speaks to the doctor anymore and his captors mostly leave him alone. He doesn't know what they are planning or what they're waiting for. It gnaws at him and makes him anxious and nervous. Except for the occasional bad dreams that people have, he hasn't had any nightmares since his mother died. But now they are back. He dreams and every night he wakes up covered in sweat and screaming behind his gag.

The doctor thinks it's the fever causing the nightmares but Stiles knows better. Even a week after the fever has subsided, he dreams about Scott, of the werewolves, of cougars and wolves and coyotes. And Lydia. But mostly he dreams about his mom.

OOO

"Kids are resilient creatures," one of the men comments. It's the day that they've decided to see the doctor off. "Give them some drugs and some time and they pop back strong as ever." The man grabs Stiles by the arm and drags him to his feet. Stiles is passed between the men, each of them pushing him in a different direction. He goes where they push, says nothing, but hates them all fervently. _Strong as ever_ is a relative term, don't they know? Stiles is anything but back to form. He is in constant pain and still weak from blood loss. The doctor has told him how the body can produce new blood cells, but that it takes time, and that he will feel weak and strung out for quite a while. _Understatement of the century_, he thinks_._ He has no energy whatsoever. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought of his dad, his friends and of coming home.

OOO

They sit cramped together in the backseat of the car. The boy, she still doesn't know his name, one of the older men and herself. It's a long and uncomfortable ride. Next to her the boy is twitching nervously and she tenses. She's not sure why, but she should know. During all their time together she's come to know his mannerisms. He's a hyperactive, frenetic, angst-ridden boy… He fidgets A LOT. She's pretty sure he has some kind of letter combination. Most likely ADHD, she thinks. He's a sweet kid and he has curious, intelligent eyes and she is happy that he's alive. It'd been touch and go there for a while but he'd pulled through.

They have spoken many times but have never _really_ talked about anything of value. Nothing about the important things at least. She has no idea who he is, why he's been hurt or why the other men keep him prisoner. There has been a code of secrecy to everything. She hasn't been allowed to know his name. They have been warned not to speak of anything that doesn't directly correlate to his care. There has always been someone watching them, making sure that they do not break those rules. In a way she's happy she knows so little. She has no idea where she's been, or who with. She doesn't know any of their names. She hasn't really worried about her own safety until now. They don't need her any more now that the boy is on his way to recovery.

The boy's gaze jumps from window to window. He turns in his seat to look at the road behind them then sits back – though still fidgeting. "Do you think you could drive a little faster?"

It seems to surprise them all. The driver glares at him in the rearview mirror. "Shut your pubescent trap or I'll shut it for you".

The boy glances nervously through the window and draws a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah, didn't think so."

A fist flies by her face so fast she doesn't even have time to react. It connects with the boy's face and he groans. "Shut it," the man beside her orders.

The boy rubs his jaw, looks like he wants to say something but doesn't.

OOO

He has this bad feeling that time is running out. He can feel and taste and smell it in the air. It's getting close. They need to keep moving. He's learnt to trust his gut and now it's telling him to run as fast as he possibly can. He knows it's after him – them now - and that it's closing in. He sits quietly for at least ten minutes then decides that he has to warn them, no matter the consequences. He swallows.

"Please, just hear me out," he says. "Something is after me. I told you that before… It's very dangerous and it's on its way here and we're all going to die if we don't get out of here as quickly as possible."

The driver grumbles something under his breath but doesn't answer. The other man sits quietly as well. It's as if they've finally had enough of him and are too fed up too even care. Fear grips Stiles' heart.

His eyes meet the doc's, and in her green orbs he can see that she believes him. They don't speak though. They almost never speak.

They drive for at least a half hour before the driver suddenly stops the car at the side of the road. Stiles looks at the barren landscape around them, not sure what the men mean to do. The doc seems to be just as confused as him. "This is where you get off, Doc," the driver says. The doctor looks frightened and Stiles is feeling it too. The man next to her gets out of the car and grabs her by the arm. "Time to go," he says. She doesn't go willingly though. The man has to drag her out of the car.

Stiles opens his door and leans out as far as the cuffs allow. "What are you doing?" he asks. _Please don't kill her. Please don't leave her here._ He peeks around nervously.

"Get back into the fucking car," the man roars at him and Stiles freezes.

The man goes to get a couple of water bottles from the trunk and hands them to the doc. "There's a town ten miles up ahead," he tells her as he passes her the water bottles. She takes the water, clutches the bottles close to her chest, and looks absolutely terrified. Stiles isn't sure what's got her more scared; his doomsday talk or having to walk ten miles in scorching heat alone. He feels for her.

"Please, don't leave me here," she begs, eyes pleading with the man in front of her, and it breaks Stiles' heart because it's his fault she's there to begin with.

"Just bugger off, will you," the man replies. He doesn't sound angry. When it comes to her it's just business to him. Stiles on the other hand…

She's crying now, tears welling, making her eyes gleam in the sunlight. Stiles thinks about ways to convince the other men to bring her with them and not leave her in the middle of nowhere.

At the same time he knows it's not safe to go anywhere with him. He suffers through a fleeting moment of uncertainty before he decides that it's actually better that they leave her on the road. She sobs and the man pushes her away from the car and out onto the road. "Just go," he says. She backs away slowly and Stiles barely manages to swallow the lump building in his throat. He leans out of the car again and fixes his eyes on her. "I'm sorry," he says. "This is all my fault and I wish none of this had happened to you. But you saved my life and I owe it to you to try and save yours."

Her sobs die down instantly. "What does that even mean?" she says, her voice in a cold whisper. She's angry because she doesn't know and Stiles thinks that they owe her that much; to be allowed to get angry.

He goes back into the car, heart heavy with guilt. The man on the road gives the doctor one last push before getting in the backseat with Stiles. The car door slams shut with scary finality. And before Stiles can even turn around in his seat they are off, car accelerating and speeding off in a cloud of dust.

The road is straight and without bumps and Stiles knows they will be able to see her for a long time before she disappears from view. But they don't get that far before he spots what he's been dreading all along; a black form appears a few miles behind the doctor, its shape growing in size as it catches up with supernatural speed.

Stiles' mouth opens in an O. He wants to scream, to yell out a warning, anything, but his voice is gone. And all he can do is watch as the creature catches up to the doc and dark sprays shoot out of her body - a mist of blood hanging in the hot air like an ominous cloud. He suddenly finds his voice and screams. It's a scream of fear and pain and echoing it are the shocked cries of the other men.

**Reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Go! Go! Go!" the man next to him barks at the driver.

Stiles grabs hold of the seat in front of him as they speed up. "It's…him," he says softly and to no one in particular. He feels as if he's going to pass out.

The man next to him pulls out a gun from his waistband and leans out of the window to aim it at the creature.

"What the hell is that thing?" he yells frantically. He fires a round of shots but stops when he realizes the bullets have no effect.

"I don't know." Desperate, Stiles pulls in the cuffs that are securing his hand to handle bar in the door. "Could you please take these off?" The man pays him no attention; his eyes are on the road and the dark beast following them.

They swerve off the road and Stiles slams into the side of the car. The pain in his torso is instantaneous and unbearable. Eyes watering, he pushes off of the door and leans back in his seat. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose.

There is a heavy thump and then a deafening crunch as part of the roof is suddenly peeled off the front pillars of the car. Stiles almost pees his pants at that. It wants him badly, that's for sure. The driver makes a sharp turn to try and get rid of their pursuer but it's pointless and they all know it. Still Stiles can't believe his eyes when the creature suddenly appears on the hood of the car. It's huge. All muscles, with a thick, black, leathery skin. It has sharp teeth too. But it's the eyes that scare Stiles the most. The dark brown eyes of someone he knows so well. There's humanity there, but it's all wrong. The creature smashes the windshield with its limbs - Stiles doesn't know if it's arms or legs, or hands or paws he sees – and the glass shatters inwards. The creature grabs the driver by the throat, cuts it with a claw, and tosses him aside. The man flies like a ragdoll through the air before he hits the ground with a deafening thud. Stiles and the other man gasp. Since there's no foot on the gas pedal anymore, the car slows down and eventually comes to a complete stop about fifty yards off the side of the road. Stiles and the other man look at each other in shock. Then the creature is gone. Stiles whips around and glances through the windows, eyes searching everywhere. Everything is still again, except for the motor that is still running. Stiles and the other man both hold their breaths. The man gestures towards Stiles' side of the car with a questioning look. Stiles shakes his head. No. No creature there. He gestures back, wondering the same thing, and the man shakes his head as well.

They hear a low growl and Stiles wonders how high of a pulse one can have before having a heart attack. He's sure his pulse is at least 180. His gaze falls on the other man and they exchange a look of pure terror. Then something slams into the car's rear hard enough to send it spinning across the ground. It spins hard and fast and Stiles and the other man hold onto their seats for dear life. Thanks to the cuffs, Stiles manages to stay on his side of the car. The man, though, tumbles around like laundry in a washing machine. Once the car stops, they gasp for breath, nauseated. Stiles tries to fight the bile rising in his throat but loses and vomits into his own lap. He feels like shit.

_Can't the thing just get it over with_, he thinks. As if on cue, a leathery limb reaches into the car and snatches the other man by the leg. He's pulled out through the window screaming and kicking. Stiles closes his eyes, hears the sounds of bones breaking and then the screaming stops. Strangely, this is when he starts to cry.

Panic overcomes him completely and Stiles can hardly breathe through the sobs and the tears. _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god._ He leans to the side, as far as the cuffs allow, and peers through the other window. The creature is just standing there. The sun hits its back and casts a big enough shadow for Stiles to go completely cold. His heart beats so hard and fast he can hardly hear anything but the thumping in his ears. The creature does nothing and Stiles can't do anything but wait to get mauled. He looks down at his already broken body. The gashes in his side have started bleeding again. _Great, just great._

"Come on then!" he says suddenly, surprising himself. He stares at the creature's shadow, looking for any sign of movement, but the creature remains still just outside the car. None of them move for a long time until Stiles can't take it anymore. "So, what are you waiting for?" he challenges. He swallows nervously and looks at the creature's shadow again. This time the creature moves. With his heart in his throat, Stiles watches as it circles the car. It's huge at first. All Stiles can see is a leathery hip, or hind leg, or whatever one would call it, through the window. But as the creature moves along, its shadow grows smaller and smaller and its leathery hide transforms into skin – human skin. When it comes to a stop outside the door on Stiles' side of the car, it looks completely human. Stiles can't see the creature's – well, person's – face, but its shoulder, chest, torso and hip all look human to him. It burns like fire in his chest and he realizes suddenly that he's been holding his breath. He scoots towards the middle of the car, arm outstretched since he's still cuffed to that damn handle bar. _This is it_. _Thank you life, for giving me eighteen whole years_, he thinks sarcastically. _You were okay in the beginning but, to be honest, you've been pretty crappy lately. And I will never forgive you for taking my mom away from me. _

His thoughts are interrupted when the car door is suddenly ripped off its hinges and he's hauled out of the car roughly. Before he knows it, he's lying on his back in the dirt. The sun is blaring down and he throws up an arm to cover his face, closes his eyes. "Jesus," he mutters.

"Stiles, I've been looking for you," it says and Stiles shudders at its voice. It's him, alright. He doesn't know what to say, he's too freaked out. Fleetingly he wonders what kind of gruesome death lies before him now that the beast has transformed. Its claws are gone and its fangs have changed into human teeth. Maybe he doesn't have to be ripped apart – not now at least. That would be an awful way to go, he thinks.

"And I've done my best to evade you." He doesn't dare look at _the thing_. He hears a soft snicker and it sounds so normal that he can almost fool himself into thinking that everything is fine. It isn't.

"Get up," it says. Surprisingly, it doesn't sound menacing at all. Stiles pushes himself off of the ground - he doesn't look – and stands on shaky legs. He's still cuffed to the handle bar and so he has to bend down to get the weight of the door off his wrist.

"Look at me."

"I'd rather not. You make me sick." He envisions himself being thrown clear across the road and then ripped to pieces for saying what he did.

"That hurts, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't know what to do but stand there awkwardly.

"They cuffed you to the door?" It's his voice, really his voice, and it's weird and creepy and awful to connect it with everything that has happened; the three murders that just occurred, the crap before that, the claw marks in his side… "Let me help you."

It, he really wants to call it _it_, grabs his cuffed wrist and Stiles feels sick to his stomach. Then a quick and sharp tug and a loud noise that Stiles doesn't recognize. He opens his eyes.

Scott gives him a small smile. "You're welcome."

Stiles glances down at his hand. The cuffs are still tightly secured around his wrist and the handle bar, except the handle bar is no longer attached to the car door. There's a large chunk of plastic, probably a part of the door, and attached to it is the handle bar. Stiles stares at it in awe. Scott had torn it clean off. He looks over at Scott again and does a double take when he suddenly realizes that Scott is naked. It's as if Scott can read his mind –and maybe he can, Stiles has no way of knowing.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some clothes," Scott states. "Maybe one of these guys could borrow me his. What do you think?"

Stiles is stunned and disgusted and says nothing. Scott saunters over to the man he killed last. "Looks about my size, doesn't he?" he asks. Stiles shrugs. He can't look when Scott removes the man's clothing. The man is dead, it's not right.

"Damn it!" Scott exclaims in mock annoyance. "His shirt is no good. It's been ripped to shreds." He laughs low and cruel and Stiles shudders again. He hates him. He hates this Scott that isn't Scott, but still is. "Wait! The other one had a shirt on too, didn't he?" Scott continues. He walks up to the other man and leans over him. He seems pleased. Stiles turns his head away and listens as Scott moves the other man around to get the shirt off. A moment later Scott stands next to him and all Stiles can think about is that Scott is wearing dead men's clothes. They even smell of death.

"Okay, let's go," Scott says, grabbing Stiles by the arm.

Stiles shakes him off. "Don't touch me."

"A little touchy, are we?" Scott comments amused. He doesn't listen either. He grabs Stiles' arm again and digs his fingers into the flesh hard enough to bruise. Stiles doesn't care. It doesn't hurt at all compared to every other pain and ache in his body.

"I thought you wanted to kill me," he says flatly. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Scott leads him towards the car. "You'll find out soon enough." He opens the door to the passenger side and pushes Stiles into the seat. Stiles sits with a heavy groan. The pain in his side has gotten worse and his shirt has fresh bloodstains on it. He leans back, tries not to think about it. Absentmindedly he arranges the handle bar with the cuff so that it lies flat across his lap then he watches as Scott gets in the driver's seat.

"I hope I didn't totally ruin the car," Scott says as he grips the steering wheel. He smiles and it looks so sweet and innocent that Stiles wants to kill him. _Well, you've ruined everything else_.

"Okay, seatbelts on," Scott sniggers and revs the engine. _He's gone_, Stiles thinks sadly. _He is really gone_.

Save for the cracked windshield and windows, the ripped open roof and the non-existent rear door, the car runs smoothly. Scott drives and Stiles rests. They don't speak. They drive for hours and Stiles realizes that he has no idea where he is. For miles he searches for road signs to tell him where they are, but there are none. They drive well into the night before Scott stops the car. He opens the door for Stiles but Stiles doesn't move. "Where are we?" he asks. "And where are we going?"

Scott points to a neon sign sitting on a fence a couple of yards away. The sign is murky and only a few of the neon letters are visible. Stiles reads slowly; **DO**LLY **OM**LIN **24/7 MOTEL** and almost laughs out loud when he realizes what the illuminated letters spell out. **DOOM 24/7 MOTEL**. _Did they know we were coming?_ He chuckles and it does wonders for his soul.

"What's so funny?" Scott asks, but Stiles ignores him. He climbs out of the car and looks around, taking in their surroundings. The motel is old and not very big and he thinks that it's in serious need of a paintjob. He counts the numbered doors leading out to the parking lot and comes up with ten. The office is at the far end of the parking lot and next to it, cast in shadows, is a dog yard, Stiles reckons, because he's pretty sure he hears barking.

"Why are we here?" he asks Scott.

"To get some shuteye of course," Scott replies.

Stiles is confused. "Do you even need to sleep anymore?" He wonders whether or not a big leather-skinned supernatural beast really needs its eight hours of sleep per night. He doubts it. Scott takes him by the arm and leads him towards a door at the far end of the building. As far away from the office as possible, Stiles thinks. _Great._ Scott leads him to room 10. They stop outside the door and Stiles half expects Scott to pull out a key, even though they haven't even checked in yet. Scott puts his ear to the door and listens then nods approvingly.

"This is perfect," he says. Stiles doesn't respond. Scott grabs the door handle and pulls it out, taking a chunk of wood with it. Not unlike how he "freed" Stiles from the cuffs. Stiles glances down at his new bracelet; cuff at the wrist, chain link, then another cuff with a handle bar dangling from it. _Nicest jewelry ever._

"Get inside," Scott orders and Stiles obeys. Room 10 is small. The space is cramped and can just barely fit a queen-sized bed, TV, and chair and desk. Stiles doesn't know where to go once he's inside. _Can he take the bed? Or is he supposed to sleep on the floor? Will he be allowed to sleep at all? _"Bathroom," Scott says, unknowingly answering Stiles questions.

Stiles hesitates, wondering suddenly what the hell Scott wants him in the bathroom for. He freezes. "C'mon," Scott urges. He pushes Stiles into the bathroom and points to the toilet lid. "Over there." Stiles sits and twitches nervously.

"Take a shower," Scott says. "You've got blood and vomit on you and you smell like shit."

"What?" Stiles mumbles, unsure if he's heard correctly.

Scott throws him a towel then slithers towards Stiles. He doesn't stop until his belly brushes against Stiles' face. Stiles jerks away as if he's been burnt and Scott sneers at him. "Still uncomfortable with taking your shirt off in front of people?" he mocks.

"No." Stiles forces out, although it is a bit of a lie.

"Good." And before Stiles knows it, Scott has grabbed him and ripped off his shirt. It falls off his body in shreds and Stiles feels violated in a way he can't even understand himself. He glances down at his torso and almost throws up. He looks like a Jack the Ripper victim; the bleeding gashes of the claw marks, the old and new wounds and the bite mark on his shoulder. Scars and various other cuts and bruises. He looks horrible. Scott leers at him. "Looking great, Stiles," he teases. "Totally ripped, man. Pun intended." He laughs and Stiles blushes without knowing why. It's not like he cares what a monster thinks of him.

Scott moves towards the door. "I'll go find you some new clothes. I'll be back in a bit."

Stiles is confused and a little weirded out by the fact that Scott is so confident in leaving him alone. But he figures it's because Scott knows he could outrun a cheetah if he wanted. Also, how hard could it be for Beast Scott to track down and recapture a badly injured human being like himself? Not hard at all is the answer.

When Scott has finally left, Stiles peels off his bloodied clothes and steps into the shower. He doesn't look at himself, just soaps up and showers off. Even the handle bar gets a good clean-off. He holds the shower head close to his chest and relishes in feeling the hot water run down his stomach and legs. He tries not to think about the bleeding gashes in his side, or the fact that it could actually be blood - not water - that he so thoroughly enjoys.

He's just stepped out of the shower when Scott reemerges from the bedroom. He tosses Stiles a pair of sweatpants and a college shirt and then steps out of the bathroom again.

Stiles considers going commando but eventually decides against it. He puts on his dirty boxers again. They are bloodstained and filthy but he hasn't got any others. The sweatpants fit perfectly and he's just about to put on the new shirt when Scott comes back. His gaze falls on Scott's hands and the small vial he's holding.

"What's that for?" he asks. He feels brave all of a sudden. Being alone with Scott and being alone with a terrifying beast are two different things. He's less frightened of Scott - something about them having been best friends since they were four maybe.

"I need some of your blood," Scott replies and it's not at all what Stiles expected him to say. He walks up to Stiles slowly and doesn't stop until he's invading Stiles' personal space again. It makes Stiles uneasy. He doesn't dare move. So he just stands there and lets Scott catch every drop of blood that seeps out of his wounds. Soon the vial is full.

**Reviews are love!**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

_He had fallen asleep and the room was dark when he woke up. He sat up straight and glanced over at his mother's bed. She was still sleeping. He slipped out of the room and headed towards the vending machine at the end of the hall. He was thirsty. The vending machine had been his primary food supplier for the last two days while his father worked his murder case. Melissa McCall, Scott's mom, had promised to keep an eye on him while his father was away and she'd made sure Stiles had gotten at least one cooked meal in his system each day. Other than that she'd left him alone. He'd asked for it so Melissa had let him, though she'd checked up on him every two or three hours to make sure he was okay. He would eat a Snickers bar for breakfast, chips for lunch and whatever Melissa brought him for dinner. Coke was his beverage of choice for each meal. He worked a couple of coins into the slot and pressed the buttons for a Coke, grabbed the bottle and walked back to his mother's room._

_He sat back in the armchair and gulped down half of the Coke in one go. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked over to his mom again. She hadn't moved. She was usually twisting and turning in her bed. His dad had told him that she'd always done that, even before she got sick._

_"Mom?" he said softly. He felt a sudden fear and stepped towards the bed slowly. Something was wrong, he could feel it. Her arms rested on top of the covers and he reached out and took her hand in his. It was cold and stiff. He looked at her face in alarm. Her eyes were open, not wide open but in slits, and they stared into nothingness the way they do when someone has passed. Something cold rushed through his body and he jerked his hand away. Later in his life he would sometimes wonder about that sudden rush of cold and the feeling of emptiness it had left behind. _

_He stared at her at first, not thinking anything, not really feeling anything. Then a sudden burst of energy filled him and his feet started moving. They took him out of the hospital and forced him into a run. He ran down the road, past the gas station and the video store, across the school parking lot and over the lacrosse field. He didn't stop until he was far into the woods. He had never been able to describe that feeling to anyone - the one he'd had that time. He'd just felt a terrible need to run. He stopped at the foot of a tree, gasping for breath. He stayed there for a long time before he slowly walked back to the hospital. _

_His father loved Stiles and he'd loved his mother. But he hadn't been there, couldn't possibly understand. No one could. They went home, hugged at the bottom of the staircase and then his father headed straight for the kitchen, possibly for the bottle of whiskey in the cupboard, and Stiles went upstairs to his room. He slammed the door shut and sank to the floor, feeling totally alone and thinking that he would never be happy again._

_Another day came and went and Stiles only left his room to use the bathroom. Then came the second morning of his new life. When he woke up Scott was there and he'd brought a videogame and a bag of chips with him. They played videogames all day. In the evening his father came upstairs with the inflatable mattress for Scott to sleep on. _

_That night Stiles cried. He buried his face in his pillow and cried long and hard. Maybe Scott heard him, maybe he didn't, he never let on._

OOO

When Stiles wakes he's completely exhausted. He sits up and looks to the chair by the door. Scott is still sitting there. He raises his eyebrows at Stiles. "What?"

Stiles turns his back to Scott. "Nothing." He lifts his shirt slowly and checks his side. It has stopped bleeding, but it could easily start again if he moved around too much. His fingers skirt over the marks and the dried blood. There are stitches left and he thinks they should probably be removed at some point.

"The woman you killed," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was a doctor." He turns to look at Scott again. "She saved my life and you just-"

Scott shrugs. "She was in the way."

"In the way..?" Stiles quivers with anger. His dream is still fresh in his mind. "She was OUT of the way. We had just left her there so you wouldn't…" He can't finish that sentence. "-She was innocent."

"No one's innocent," Scott says casually. He crosses the room and stops to lean against the wall next to the bed. Stiles scoots back, an arm around his midsection. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Scott shrugs and again Stiles compares the Scott from his dream - his best friend - to Scott the monster who had murdered three people right in front of him. He hates this. He hates Scott. He hates that he has no powers. "She was kind to me," he says softly. "She was the only one that didn't want to torture or kill me."

"If you say so…" Scott grins and Stiles feels sick to his stomach - all those razor sharp teeth. Without warning, Scott charges at him. And before Stiles knows it he's laying on his back with Scott on top, straddling him. Scott leans down until his nose almost touches Stiles'. Stiles closes his eyes, certain that he's going to die. He hears Scott breathe in deep and is appalled when he realizes what he's doing.

"That's the smell," Scott growls, and Stiles is more freaked out by Scott than he ever was before. He turns his head to the side, trying to get away from Scott's imposing breath. Scott smells him again, and then sits back on his hunches. "That's exactly what I smelled on her," he tells Stiles. "Scared and injured teenagers. That's what you all smell like, Stiles."

Stiles is confused and Scott climbs off of him. "She was into boys," he tells Stiles, "She would sedate them and do things to them while they were asleep." Scott reaches out and strokes Stiles' cheek. Stiles slaps his hand away. "What the hell are you doing?! Don't touch me!"

Scott sniggers, he seems to enjoy toying with him. "She had a type Stiles. Guess what that was?" He sniffs the air, like he just sniffed Stiles. "That's right. Injured, brown eyed, dark haired, awkward, skinny and defenseless boys. That was her type. Sounds a lot like you, doesn't it?"

Stiles knows Scott is lying. He has to be. It scares him that he's even considering whether or not it's true what Scott says – that the doc was some kind of predator. He doesn't know what to say. Can't really move, he's too freaked out. He tries to recall the moments he and the doctor had together. She had been by his side the whole time. Was there a reason for that, other than that he was her patient? She would touch his forehead to feel for a fever when she already knew he had one. She would lift his shirt several times a day to check his wounds. When he'd had a nightmare, she had held his hand and stroked his cheek until he fell back to sleep. All these memories he'd regarded as positive but now, thanks to Scott, he sees them as twisted and putrid.

OOO

They leave the motel about half an hour later. This time Scott forces Stiles into the trunk. There is a huge dent in the rear from when Scott sent the car spinning and part of the metal frame has been pushed into the trunk compartment. It makes the space a lot more claustrophobic and Stiles doesn't like small spaces. He tries not to panic as Scott starts the car but he does. He screams and kicks at the walls of his prison. He does so for a long time until he's completely drained and out of breath. The car stops and he freezes, but nothing happens and he's afraid suddenly that Scott has left him there. Then the trunk opens and he gets a glimpse of a black figure, its body covered in leather-like skin. His heart pounds frantically in his chest. Again he thinks about the fact that Scott, the beast, terrifies him more than human Scott – even though they are in fact one and the same. Beast Scott growls at him and Stiles just lays there, frozen in fear. Beast Scott is scary fast. Stiles doesn't even see the arm, or leg or whatever it is, as it cuts through the air and slices his cheek open. The attack is swift and the injury inflicted on him is scarily precise. He cries out in pain and covers his face with his hands. He feels blood run between his fingers and knows he won't be able to stop the sobs from escaping his body. Beast Scott shoves him hard and Stiles falls quiet immediately. Then the trunk is slammed shut and they are off again. He is silent this time. Blood is everywhere; it burns his eye and leaves no room for tears. He weeps inside, doesn't even dare to move. He traces the cuts with his fingers, trying to assess the damage, and soon realizes that Beast Scott wasn't that precise at all. There are three cuts on his cheek. Two of them are shorter and reach from his chin to his cheekbone. The third one, the one in the middle, is the worst. It stretches from his chin all the way up to his eye. Fear grips his heart, when he suddenly realizes the gravity of the situation; the burn in his eye isn't caused by blood.

He doesn't know how long he's been in the trunk when they finally come to a stop. The trunk pops open and Stiles senses Scott standing there. He doesn't dare to look at him. He's seized by the arms and hauled out of the trunk and he tries his best to protect his face with his hands. But Scott pries his hands apart with no effort at all. Scott grabs his face and forces his head to the side. Stiles' right cheek is swollen, the gashes split further apart by the swelling, and he can't open his eye.

"Damn it!" Scott exclaims, and Stiles jumps at his voice. "Why the fuck did you have to provoke me like that?!" Stiles shrinks back, afraid to be attacked again. "Fuck!" Scott bellows in his ear. Scott shakes him violently and Stiles doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what Scott wants from him. "I'm sorry," he says, because it's the only thing he can think of to say.

"Do you want to die?" Scott yells. Stiles trembles, and hates himself for it. _No, of course not._ "This was not supposed to happen," Scott continues his rant. He lets go of Stiles and Stiles' hand immediately shoots up to cover his cheek, both to protect it but also to try and stem the bleeding. He's confused as to why Scott is so upset. If he didn't know any better he would think that Scott actually regrets what he did. He wonders silently if human Scott blacks out every time Beast Scott emerges. He says nothing, convinced that Scott will do whatever he wants to do with him once he's calmed down. "This was not supposed to happen," Scott repeats. His sad voice chills Stiles to the bone.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

They stop for gas. Scott gets out of the car and Stiles stays in his seat. He has regained feeling in his cheek and it throbs like hell. Scott had let him see a doctor for his face and, with a set of claws at his throat the doctor had stitched Stiles up and given him a load painkillers; antibiotics too, after Stiles showed him the gashes in his side. The doctor had looked at his eye too and told him the injury would most likely affect his eyesight. Either in that he would be completely blind on that eye or his vision would be permanently fucked up. The doctor couldn't tell for sure since Stiles' eye was completely swollen shut and impossible to examine, other than the obvious cut on his eyelid.

Scott gets back in the car and drops something in Stiles' lap. It's a burger. Stiles stares at it, stunned. "Thought you might be hungry," Scott says and it sounds so nice and innocent, Stiles can hardly believe his ears.

"What," he stammers. He tries to recall when he last ate. He thinks it was the morning before Scott killed the doctor and the two hunters - so a couple of days ago. The weird thing is he hasn't felt hungry once since Scott showed up. He's felt sick many times though, his stomach churning practically every time Scott opens his mouth.

"Just eat the damn thing," Scott orders and starts the car.

Stiles takes a bite. It tastes like betrayal; stale and rotten. He throws it out of the window. "Can't eat," he says. "Told you. You make me sick."

OOO

They enter the barn to the sound of mooing. Without a word Scott pushes Stiles into an empty stall. Stiles stumbles forward and just barely manages to catch his fall before face planting in the sawdust. He looks up at Scott and the blood around his mouth and something twists in his stomach. He's just witnessed Beast Scott slaughter the farmer and his wife and then drink their blood. Stiles doesn't understand any of it; the meaningless killings, the drinking blood – his as well as others, Scott's determination to keep him alive while also enjoying hurting him. Scott is naked again and Stiles has really had enough of it, he averts his eyes.

Scott turns on his heels and walks outside and Stiles is too shocked to do anything. Scott has only been away for a couple of minutes when Stiles hears mooing again. He gets up slowly and works his way down the row of stalls. There are no cows in there. He wonders how far away they are, he imagines a pen outside but can't remember seeing one. He hears something else; talking or laughing, he can't quite make out what.

"What are you doing?" Scott sounds confused rather than angry.

Stiles whips around to find Scott dressed in what are obviously the farmer's clothes. "Nothing," he replies.

"Thinking of running, were you?"

Scott walks up to him and instinctively Stiles takes a step back. "No," he says. Where would he go anyway? Scott could easily hunt him down and then he would kill anyone in sight. And Stiles has seen enough death to last him a lifetime. "I thought I heard something."

"Mooing?" Scott says and raises an eyebrow. Stiles nods. "On a farm?! Well, that's definitely cause for alarm, Stiles." Scott grabs him by the arm. Stiles follows where Scott leads and soon he's back in the first stall.

"Why are we in the barn and not in the house?" he asks Scott.

Scott doesn't answer him at first. He sits across from Stiles, takes some sawdust in his hand and blows at it. Stiles waits, and finally Scott looks back at him. "I don't want to be punished for more than what is necessary."

It is so not what Stiles expects Scott to say. "What are you talking about?" he asks breathlessly. "I wouldn't exactly call Lisa's death a necessary one."

"Lisa?"

"The doctor," Stiles says, he can't help but feel provoked by Scott's nonchalance. "You should at least have the decency to remember your victims, you know."

Scott growls at him and Stiles goes quiet. "I told you what she was into," Scott says angrily. "Believe me, she deserved it."

They sit in silence for a long time until finally Scott speaks again. "We'll stay for a couple of hours. Get some sleep."

Normally Stiles would not have listened, but he's exhausted, knows he needs every second of rest that he can get. He lies down and closes his eyes. When Scott wakes him, it's as if he's only slept for a couple of minutes. He swats at Scott's hand. "Go away." Scott is instantly pissed off and pulls Stiles up by the handlebar and cuffs.

"We're going," he orders. He drags Stiles across the yard by the handlebar and Stiles tries his best to stay on his feet. Just before he's pushed into the car, he looks up to the farmhouse and almost gasps when he spots two young boys in a window on the second floor. Shocked, he looks to Scott and Scott glances backwards. "Those boys never did anything," he says and Stiles is stunned. _He knew they were in the house all along?_ Scott pushes him into the car and goes around to the driver's side.

"What did they do? Why did you kill them?"

Scott sighs and starts the car. "Who?"

"The farmer and his wife," Stiles says. "You said no one's innocent."

"No one is. Animal cruelty, is that a good enough reason for you?" Scott snaps. "There are no cows on this farm, Stiles."

"What?" Stiles turns in his seat to look back at the farm. No pens in sight. No animals in the barn. _What the hell was going on?_ He has a hard time breathing suddenly and opens the window. He breathes in the fresh air and breaks into a cold sweat.

"Scott, please," he says. "What's going on here? Where are we going? What did you mean when you said there weren't any cows here?"

Scott rolls his eyes, gaze still on the road ahead. "I thought I made it pretty clear," he says annoyed. "There _used_ to be animals on that farm. Animal cruelty, remember?" His eyes cut to Stiles'. "They had to be put down… Your senses are developing." He looks back on the road. "Finally," he adds.

Stiles refuses to drop the subject. "You mean they killed their cows? But why did we hear mooing then?"

"Their spirits," Scott answers and makes a sharp turn to the right, enough for Stiles to bump into the side of the car. "No more questions or you'll lose your other eye too."

At least a hundred questions swirl around in Stiles' head but after Scott's threat he doesn't dare ask any of them. It's a quiet ride for the next couple of hours and Stiles suffers through it. He can't think of anything to say and every time he opens his mouth to speak, it's a question.

OOO

Scott stops the car at the side of the road and their eyes meet. Stiles knows what Scott wants and he doesn't want to give it to him. But there is nothing he can do, it's pointless to resist. Scott takes Stiles' arm, holds fast and Stiles looks away as Scott tears a straight line across his forearm with one of his claws. He wants to pull away, to yell at Scott that he's gross and that it's creepy as hell what he's doing, but he says nothing. He feels Scott's lips on his arm and shudders at the slurping sound. Werewolf or vampire, or just monster, he thinks. Does it even matter anymore?

Scott doesn't drain him of blood like he does with his other victims, he drinks just enough to keep him going, it seems. Still, it's enough to make Stiles lightheaded. Scott soon lets go of his arm and Stiles pulls away. He shoots Scott a disgusted look. He hates him so much it hurts. He's disgusted with himself too, for letting Scott do what he does to him. The claw mark on his forearm doesn't exactly make him feel better about himself.

Scott gets out of the car without a word. Feeling a little faint, Stiles gets out as well. He follows Scott and they walk off the road and into a clearing. Scott stops. "They'll be here soon," he says.

"Who?"

Scott sniffs the air and Stiles watches in dread as his eyes change from dark brown to red and then back to brown again. "The rest of the pack," Scott replies.

Stiles has totally forgotten about the others. He's been too busy trying to survive Scott's company. He feels a chill run down his spine. "Is this where you guys kill me?"

"Of course not," Scott replies.

"What does that mean?" Stiles is sick and tired of his questions never being answered. And of course, Scott ignores him. "And what's with the whole drinking blood thing?" he continues. "Last I checked you were a werewolf, not some bloodsucker.

"I am a werewolf," Scott says. He does not elaborate.

Stiles groans deeply. Talking to Scott is like talking to a brick wall. A mysterious, very lethal, brick wall.

They stand next to each other in complete silence and for the first time since Stiles met Beast Scott, he considers the possibility of escaping. Again, it's as if Scott can read his mind. He turns to Stiles and in one quick motion he grabs the handle bar attached to Stiles' wrist and strikes him in the face with it. Stiles stumbles backwards with a sharp cry and lands on his ass in the grass. "Don't even think about it," Scott warns him. "I didn't bring you all this way for nothing."

Stiles clutches his face. "Just let me go," he says. "I can't take this anymore." He wants to cry but can't. He hears a tree branch snap and jumps to his feet.

Scott looks to where the sound came from. "They are here," he says.

A bear appears between the trees suddenly and Stiles' heart stops. It looks like a grizzly bear, but still not. It's bigger. Its fur coat is grayish in color and it has ice blue eyes. The bear walks towards them slowly and all Stiles can think is _run, run, run_. He doesn't though. The bear stops next to him and Stiles holds his breath. He thinks he knows what's coming.

"Don't be afraid," Scott says, and at first Stiles thinks he's talking to the bear. Hell, that would have been ridiculous. Stiles shifts his gaze from the bear, his eyes lock with Scott's, and instantly he knows that Scott is talking to him. _Don't be afraid?_ It's such an odd thing coming from this Scott.

This is Scott, Beast Scott, who has clawed him in the gut, drunk his blood, cut his cheek open and mocked and taunted him for days. Why would he show him any kindness now? It makes absolutely no sense. He senses movement and turns towards the bear. But it's not a bear anymore, it's Derek.

**TBC**


End file.
